


Whumptober 2019

by BiP



Category: Good Omens (TV), Person of Interest (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Other, Whumptober 2019, implied prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2020-11-10 17:24:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20855492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiP/pseuds/BiP
Summary: I'm going to try posting every day or so. Rating, whump, characters, fandoms - who knows?





	1. Day 1: Shaky Hands

Dean leaned against the brick wall, his head swirling with conflicting emotions. Trying to steady himself, he took a deep breath, but his hands shook as he counted the money he had stuffed in his pockets earlier. Ten, twenty, twenty-five, thirty, fifty. Enough to pay another night at the motel, but not much more. 

Another deep breath. He glanced at his watch - still early enough to make at least another hundred, maybe even two, and if he did that he could justify wasting money on the books Sam needed. 

But…in a minute. Just a minute, long enough for a quick smoke and to let his head just be empty. His hands were steady as he shook out the match.


	2. Day 2: Explosion

After the End of the World that Wasn’t, after they returned to their own faces and told their stories of Heaven and Hell and trials, mock or non-existent, life returned to what passed for normal. Crowley kept on tempting, and sowing low-level frustration, and sometimes doing Big Things, but he got to pick the targets now and that made his demonic heart happy. And, even better, he could spend time with Aziraphale and not have to worry about who was watching them. 

What he did worry about was his angel. 

It started so slowly, almost imperceptible to anyone who hadn’t known him, watched him, for 6000 years. He was quieter, more contained, less effusive about - well, everything really. He rarely opened the bookshop, preferring to sit with a cup of tea and a book - but he rarely turned the pages. He would drift off mid-conversation, or simply sit for hours staring at his hands.

His moans of pleasure and delight in food became less and less ecstatic, and slowly just disappeared altogether. He ate, if he remembered to or if Crowley brought him something, but he made no suggestions, never wiggled at a particularly delicious bite, no matter what kind of sweet nibbles Crowley tempted him with. And he was putting an effort into his Tempting. 

And that was another place that Aziraphale was fading away. No matter what Effort, what Temptation, he shied away from even the smallest touch, and they had been so good together that it was breaking Crowley’s heart. 

After a number of months of this, things changed - and not for the better. Where he had been quiet, Aziraphale became snappy, irritated by customers, Crowley, the weather, London, Crowley, the news, and especially Crowley. The explosion Crowley had been bracing for finally arrived on what normally would have been a perfect spring day - soft sunshine, baby ducklings, blooming trees, and Crowley was trying desperately to get Aziraphale to come out with him, “just for a little while, angel? We can have a picnic, it’s lovely out!” 

“Just - just go without me.” 

“It’s not as much fun without you, who’s going to protect the ducklings from me?”

Crowley startled when Aziraphale’s teacup shattered in his hand. Rather than drop it, Aziraphale’s hand tightened around the shards of porcelain, and golden drops began to run from his palm. 

“I said, go without me. I can’t protect anything. Not you, not myself, not even a duckling. I’m just as likely to kill it as look at it.” His voice was getting steadily louder. 

“Angel, what-”

“STOP ASKING ME, Crowley. Just leave. I’m sure I don’t know why you’re still here, after Heaven showed you just how useless I am.”

“Wait, no-”

“I don’t understand why I haven’t Fallen. They think so little of me that they would just ask me to step into Hellfire, no trial, no discussion, not even-” Aziraphale’s voice breaks, and he throws the remains of the cup against the wall, followed by the saucer, and the plate next to him. He lurches out of his chair, and throws the lamp on the table next to him, and then the book he was reading, and Crowley can’t, he has to stop this. He wraps his arms around Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale continues to fight, and sob, and rant, a steady stream of despair and hurt and rage. “They didn’t care, she didn’t come, I might as well have Fallen, why won’t she ANSWER ME?” He is lashing out wildly in Crowley’s arms, and they’ll both be bruised tomorrow. For now, all Crowley can do is whisper nonsense, shushing noises, endearments and calm. He’s not going to use any power to ease this, because honestly, Aziraphale needs it. It’s been festering far too long. 

Aziraphale is no longer struggling, but he still sobs, a deep heaving thing, and then wails again. “But why? I want Her. Why, Crowley?” 

“I don’t have any answers for you, angel,” Crowley soothes as Aziraphale begins to wind down. “But you have to talk about it, you can’t keep going like this. And I will always, always be here for you. You can’t get rid of me this easily. There are ducks out there that need dunking.”

Aziraphale sniffles a little almost-laugh against Crowley’s chest. “Look at this, I’ve made you all wet. These forms are ridiculously leaky.” 

Crowley pulls away enough to look Aziraphale in the eye, and miracles up a soft tartan handkerchief, already damp, to soothe away the tearstains, and cool his angel’s cheeks. “Here, now, sweetheart, let’s clean us both up - suddenly his shirt is dry - and maybe take that walk?”

“All right,” sighs Aziraphale, already buttoning his emotions back together. “Maybe we could stop off for pastries on the way?”

That’s the best suggestion Crowley has heard in months.


	3. Day 21: Laced Drink

Harold had a truly awful habit of getting drugged. He was beginning to get irritated by it, and really didn’t understand it to begin with; it’s not like in his physical condition he could outrun a bad guy anyway. Why in the world-

“Finch, you should try not talking now, and see how that works for you,” someone whispered.

That was Fukko. No. Funko. No but closer. 

“Fusco, Finch. Lionel Fusco and you know it. Now BE QUIET.” That last was a whisper-shout, which made Harold start to giggle. 

Fusco slapped a hand over Harold’s mouth, and lifted his head over the convenient stack of boxes for them to hide behind. Yep, the bad guys were still out there. If he could just keep Harold quiet - and then Fusco yelped as Harold licked his hand. 

So much for avoiding the bad guys.


	4. Day 15: Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chronic pain for Crowley and Aziraphale.

The first Autumn post not-Armageddon was glorious. The air was fresher, the sun shone every day at the perfect temperature, and not just in Tadfield. Adam’s joy had spread to cover most of England, and London was prettier than Aziraphale had seen in 300 or more years. 

He and Crowley relished it, basking in the warmth, picnicking often and taking long walks in the park and drives through the countryside, finding the perfect cottage. They spent much of the late fall moving various bits of themselves into their new home. Guy Fawkes Day was the crisp perfection of every child’s dream - and the day after, it began to snow. 

It snowed gently for days and days, until the little cottage was adrift. Inside, the angel and the demon kept the fire stoked, only using a few miracles, and wrapped themselves in blankets and in each other. 

One afternoon, Aziraphale winced and tripped a little as he got up from his chair, and rubbed at his right leg, massaging the thigh. 

“You alright there, angel?” Crowley asked from his sprawl in front of the fire. 

“Just fine, dearest - just looks like it’s time to pull my cane out again.”

Crowley thought of the few times he’d seen the cane make an appearance; a tempting/blessing they’d had to do together in St Petersburg, much of the time at Camelot when Aziraphale thought no one was looking, the mountains of Afghanistan centuries ago.

“You know I can help you with that, right?” Crowley rolled off the couch and onto his own feet. “It’s not like I don’t have millenia of practice.”

“We have different pains, darling. My scar tissue isn’t the same as your hips, as you’re well aware.” 

“True, but a hot bath and a massage never hurt anything at all.” Crowley wiggled his eyebrows. 

“What a lovely idea. I’ll get the wine, you start the water. And put in those bubbles!” Aziraphale called to Crowley’s retreating back. 

Watching them from a distance, if you knew what to look for, you’d see it on bad days (cold days, wet days, sometimes any day at all) - how stiffly Aziraphale held himself, as he attempted to keep his muscles from spasming. How often Crowley moved as he tried and failed and tried and failed to find a position that didn’t make his hips ache after a few minutes. 

But only if you knew what to look for.


End file.
